


Somebody Who Cares

by yesterdaisy_______57



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 13:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17961902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterdaisy_______57/pseuds/yesterdaisy_______57
Summary: Set in September 1968; Ringo arrives at EMI early one day. Based on ideas from ‘Somebody Who Cares’ (Tug of War) and ‘Step Lightly’ (Ringo).





	Somebody Who Cares

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Six Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288051) by [Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock). 



> Loosely inspired by the story above. Also inspired by  
> ‘Somebody Who Cares’: https://www.the-paulmccartney-project.com/song/somebody-who-cares/  
> ‘Step Lightly’: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ringostarr/steplightly.html

Ringo hadn't been sure when he woke up that morning if he'd wanted to bother coming into the studio at all today. It was a wonder he found himself on the way there three hours ahead of time. For a start, he'd always hated drum solos, so he couldn't think of what to do. For another, the studio had become a place of hell.

It had started once the euphoria of tour-less freedom had begun to ebb away. Being cooped up brought out the worst in them all. George started holing himself away, prone to sudden outbursts at odd times and insolently going along with whatever Paul said at other times. He'd become obsessed with the Indian music styles and gotten into LSD and he seemed decades older than he had just three years ago. And John... John was hardly recognisable. Under his new granny glasses and thick beard he looked like some sort of attempt at Jesus, or perhaps just a funny breed of donkey. Not to mention the sexual, passionate shadow of a lover he'd stuck to him. Humour drained from his very brain and in its place was aggressive peacemaking. When the no-girls-in-the-studio rule was broken it had made a change for the worse in the whole atmosphere.

Then there was Paul. A nightmare, these days. He'd become a control freak, gone mad over Brian's death and any imperfection in their image, his image, a guitar riff, a drum bit, whatever it could be. What had been charming characteristics of a devoted perfectionist had become too much. He'd make sure he'd get his way, annoying the crap out of everyone there by being too much in contact with everyone. Ringo sometimes wondered if he had ever needed privacy.

He ran a hand through his hair as he regarded the shiny white door warily, asking himself why he was here. I don't know, he finally thought, and turned the handle nonetheless.

Getting closer to Studio Two and he saw a light on inside. His first thought was janitors, but that couldn't be it because no matter how messy whatever someone'd brought in to eat was it was never cleaned up the next day. His next thought was fleeting and casual: maybe someone just forgot to turn it off. It didn't seem too unrealistic. But Ringo couldn't shake the feeling someone was inside.

Oh, no, he thought with a jolt in his chest. What if John's in there with Yoko? He knew it was a foolish idea, but would it really be too strange for the pair of them? Ringo inched closer to the door, promising himself that if he saw what he suspected, he'd race out of EMI and get out of the neighbourhood to be busy not telling anyone with a nice sandwich. Closer, and he felt heat rise in his face as certainty bloomed in him. Another inch closer. Yes, someone was certainly doing _something_ in there. Vague sounds could be heard from inside, but it was impossible to say what they were.

Another step closer. Ringo felt silly standing there, petrified of walking in on John Lennon's afternoon. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen him before, at least in Hamburg. They used to be closer than brothers, all four of them. Ringo was the only one who could calm down John in one of his pill rages, make him have a good laff. What had happened?

Another step closer and Ringo could just see the curtain of black hair sliding aside to reveal Yoko's face from some part or another of John, looking innocently at him like it was normal. John would yell out her name at any minute…

'Fuckin' hell!'

Ringo leapt a foot in the air from his place beside the door. But it hadn't been John's voice— it hadn't even been Yoko's. It was as thick a Liverpool accent as George ever had, but there was no mistaking Paul's yell.

Ringo paused a moment, considering. What was Paul doing in Studio Two alone, shouting like a Scouse sailor? He pulled open the heavy door a bit and slipped inside, looking around for Paul. The room seemed to be completely deserted. He then caught sight of a figure seated on the floor behind some tall bits of equipment, just visible. Paul's guitar was propped against a wall nearby, like he'd started to try playing and given up. Ringo wondered how long he'd been there, and started making his way around chairs and equipment towards him.

He froze when he heard the first soft, broken sob. 'A bird,' went his mind automatically. 'That's not Paul.' But he knew it was. Ringo wondered whether to leave, turn around now before Paul noticed him. He realised he'd never seen Paul cry. Some twisted part of his mind was curious, keeping him rooted to his place.

It was too easy to see Paul as he first had in Germany. He looked scared and young, sobbing roughly on the floor with his hands clenched in his own hair. In his ragged breaths there was anger, but it wasn't directed at anyone. He was self imploding.

Ringo stood there silently while Paul trembled on the ground, his heart beating fast. There was an uncomfortable tension in his stomach and he seriously wondered whether he wouldn't have liked better to walk in on John and Yoko; anything but this. This felt wrong. It had seemed like Paul had everything under control; looking back, that was completely unrealistic. They had all been close. This was rough for all of them. The Beatles were being torn apart.

It had been a while since he had thought of Paul as 'the pretty one'. Even back in Hamburg before he joined, however, Ringo could remember agreeing privately with the girls who would call him that. He hadn't known much about him yet; but of the Beatles, Paul could be identified at the Kaiserkeller for his good German, left-handedness, high Little Richard screams, and yes, his prettiness. Even John would talk extensively about it (and in return, Paul would call John's hands beautiful). And now, it occurred to Ringo, so much time had gone by that everything in between could have been a lifetime-- not to mention he knew Paul himself so much more now: he was one of the other three fellows who had gotten closer than brothers. Ringo knew now that Paul could be insecure -- that he felt sometimes that he wasn't manly enough. He remembered one particular incident of him getting sour and silent when John had mentioned their Decca audition with Pete; he wouldn't shut up about how Paul's nerves made him sound like a woman. Besides, Paul had the kind of body you could call beautiful.

For some reason, as he stood awkwardly between chairs in the studio, it was easier than ever to forget that time had passed since they had been playing in Germany, and to see Paul as young, even vulnerable... and pretty. It had been so long since he had seen that. Hard to tell when it was that he had gotten used to thinking of Paul as only a prick. Hard to know when he had forgotten everything else.

The sun had been obscured by clouds when Ringo had arrived but the sky was beginning to clear now, and he took the opportunity to look at it when the full awkwardness of the situation reached him -- inevitably he would glance back to Paul, concerned and feeling useless, or else as if he were trespassing on very private property.

Paul had released his grasp on his own hair and tried to take a deep breath, hands dropping down to his shoulders, but his breath caught and suddenly he was sobbing again, gripping the back of his own neck like it might try and go away too. Ringo swallowed and looked at the wall, feeling stiff. He could almost hear Paul's voice -- maybe his laughter -- in his sobs.

Once upon a time when they still had each other, this situation might have been easier. Of course, then, it wouldn’t have included the complication that this was likely, in part, his fault. But at least then he might've known what to do-- how to connect. He could have asked one of the others for help with dealing with the problems Paul liked to pretend he didn't have. That was how he tended to deal with them-- contrasting with John, who liked to act tough yet wore his heart on his sleeve, making internal pain and chaos violently external. It was hard to recall many a time when Paul had really let anything slip from inside his hard shell, even in the closeness of hotels and vans where they'd shared anything, depending on the mood and how much alcohol was in John.

'I can remember Mum would always try and make Mike and me talk well,' he had mused, one night when they were all slumped around a park bench after a pub night. 'I used to make fun -- 'what was that, Mum? Daarncing?' -- till she... she went and I felt bad so I started... I st...' His voice had broken and he didn't go on, waving the end off. John had been watching him intently, but at that point Paul had had to go throw up in a bush so he'd let it go.

John always used to watch Paul. He'd look at him on stage, waiting for Paul to glance back and smile brighter; he'd scrutinise him when he was in conversation and John had little else to do; then there were the sessions when the two of them would make up songs together with guitars, watching each other intensely. In some cases looking at Paul was to help John -- he could get support from Paul's bouncing, sweaty smiles. They had also come into use to help Paul, which was important because he didn't like to ask for help. [He would let situations get to 'fuckin' hell' first.] Shortly after their Royal Show in '63 they had been in an interview when John had suddenly ended it to pull him aside for some reason. Paul had denied needing assistance and everyone else had been flummoxed until ten minutes later when he nearly collapsed with a fever and stomach flu. John hardly took his eyes off him for over a week afterwards.

Ringo looked at Paul. Things were different now.

 _He needs you now, John,_ he tried to communicate silently. John did not appear.

It was Ringo's turn.

He glanced around the room nervously, feeling rather warm, and then turned away as if busy with something and cleared his throat. He heard Paul jump from behind him and really did make himself busy, taking out a cigarette. There was a lighter in his pocket. He took it out and turned around as he fumbled with it, hands shaking slightly. His eyes were on the tip of the cigarette, but he could still see Paul wiping his face out of focus in the background. He was still on the ground.

Ringo walked over to him nonchalantly, taking a drag, and sat down next to him. He blew the smoke out. 'Would you like some?'

Paul took it gratefully, took a drag and handed it back. 'Thanks,' he said, smoke pouring out of his mouth. Ringo noticed that his eyelashes were wet; they were sticking together in groups. He looked away quickly and observed Paul’s knees for a moment. Paul put his head back in a hand, biting his lip.

'What’s wrong?' Ringo asked cautiously. His arms felt very odd and he wished he had not thought about them.

Paul flinched. 'Fuckin’ headache,' he said to the ground. There was a deafening pause.

Ringo got up abruptly and poured a glass of water, then returned to Paul and gave it to him. He thought it would be best to take him at his word rather than insist that Paul give a different answer: he did not want him to close up. 'This might help.' Paul accepted it and Ringo stayed close behind him on the ground, quiet.

'Why are you here so early?' he asked finally. Paul swallowed and didn’t look at him. Ringo waited; they had as much time as they needed.

'I don’t know,' answered Paul in an odd voice. He was still staring dolefully at the floor; Ringo didn’t react. 'I thought I’d play a few… oldies…' And then he was sobbing again and Ringo was there, putting his arms around Paul in a hug.

‘Ringo…’ Paul whispered, ‘I can’t do it. Fuckin’ mess… it’s all falling apart, and I can’t do anything…’

 _What was that, Paul?_ thought Ringo sadly. _Caarn’t?_

'It’s a fucking mess,’ Paul said again. ‘I’d thought we were ready to go somewhere new but we’re just… Suddenly I look around and no one’s really there, not really.’

‘I know,’ murmured Ringo, embracing him tightly. ‘I know.’

‘There’s John, but he’s got Yoko and poor Jules’s getting the short end of the stick with Cyn… I didn’t know he would do that, he went and did it to all of us, to me! George’s got his sitar and his religion… and you-- you’ve got Mo, and Zak… he’s a beautiful kid, Rings.’

‘I know,’ repeated Ringo quietly. ‘I know he is.’

‘But the band goes away and I haven’t got _shit_ , Ringo… I’m done for. You know me, I can’t handle it on my own-- whenever I touch something someone else walks out or, I dunno, dies or something… you know it’s Brian’s birthday next Thursday?’

Ringo hadn’t thought about this. He swallowed and held on to Paul.

‘ _I’m_ here, you know,’ he pointed out. Paul nodded after a moment and looked up at him finally. ‘You know, none of us get to choose that this never happened. It’ll always be John, Paul, George and Ringo. It was us -- like it or not.’

‘Christ, seems like no one does like it, do they?’

‘It’s getting a bit rough,’ admitted Ringo.

‘Maybe _this_ is all we do,’ mused Paul, slightly recklessly. ‘Maybe this is the end but we don’t know, and it just goes round and round in a loop forever.’

Ringo chuckled, getting up and sitting back into a chair. ‘Is _that_ how it all ends, then? I’ve always wondered. You know, at one point I thought it was going to be a hard stop with a knife in me gut. Sounds nicer, this.’

‘Oh, don’t fool yourself,’ Paul said suddenly; Ringo recognised the face he used when asked about stupid or silly rumours. ‘Everybody’s going away anyway, you know, you’ve got no luck with them, they can’t--’

‘ _Paul_ ,’ cut off Ringo gently. ‘Don’t make this worse than it is. Things will work out fine, love. I _know_ it’s hard -- fucking hell, Paul, it’s an Everest -- but it’s been long enough now. I _know_ you won’t be stopped by that. Neither will the rest of us. We’ve got the others.’

‘We haven’t!’ insisted Paul hotly. ‘See John, he’s cleaning his slate, you can see it now -- he’s _done_ with me, us, the group. We haven’t got each other. I’m on my own.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Ringo said quietly.

‘What the fuck do you think John’s doing, then? Or George?’ retorted Paul; his words were strong but his tone could not have supported them less.

‘They still care,’ said Ringo. Paul's expression could not have been more disbelieving. ‘No, they do-- have you ever seen a speck of indifference in this studio? George likes to pretend he doesn’t care, but you can tell he’s angry anyway; John might be a prick but he doesn’t mean it; and _I_ care. There will always be _somebody_ who cares!’

Paul stared at him with a mixture of stubborn exasperation and curiosity. ‘What?’ he said finally.

‘Somebody cares,’ repeated Ringo resignedly.

‘You always tell us the strangest things, love,’ said Paul after a moment.

‘Well? Always right though, aren’t I?’

‘Pretty much.’

There was a pause.

‘You should try getting a girl, Paul,’ said Ringo. ‘Not just a quick shag or a bird to stay with for a while. Find someone you can last with. A love.’

Paul nodded thoughtfully at the ground.

\----

George shuffled into the studio after a good hour or two. ‘Well, _half_ of us came early,’ he said. ‘Been playing?’

Ringo opened his mouth, unsure of what to say; but Paul was the one to speak.

‘A bit.’

George nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, as if he couldn’t have seen less.

It was at that moment that John burst into the studio, Yoko trailing behind before the door shut. George sat down heavily and began tuning his guitar; John joined him quickly. The day had begun, quite abruptly.

'Did you really have an headache?' Ringo asked Paul, striding over to set up his drums.

'Yeah, I did!' He grinned. 'Fuckin’ agony!'

It occurred to Ringo, as he watched John break into a momentary smile and turn back to the guitar, that perhaps if he had caught a glimpse of Paul earlier he might’ve helped too.

**Author's Note:**

> Brian’s birthday is 19 September; Ringo walked out of the Beatles on 22 September 1968.  
> I may go back and change around the second half a bit, as it seemed to go a bit downhill after they actually started talking back and forth.  
> Hope you liked it! I appreciate comments.


End file.
